Insignificant
by The Science Of Seduction
Summary: A story about Sherlock and John with an OC and slash fluff. M because I say so.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock and John were in the middle of an irrelevant conversation as they left the crime scene. Sherlock waved his arm out for a taxi as he concluded. "That's why the eyeballs were in there," he explained with a slightly guilty look on his face. This wasn't the first time John had seen this look.

"Look Sherlock, I don't care why they were in there, I just want you to consider my comfort zone when using the microwave," Sherlock rolled his eyes at John. It's not like _he _would understand. _Nobody _understands him, except maybe Moriarty, and he would love to discuss things with him if Moriarty weren't trying to kill him.

The black vehicle pulled up on the side of the road. John went towards the door but stopped.

"Problem?" queried Sherlock.

"There's already someone inside," replied John. Sherlock opened the door to find a person (he couldn't tell the gender in the shadow of the interior) sitting opposite Sherlock and John's usual seat.

"I don't mind if you join me, Sherlock Holmes, we're going to the same destination," came a voice from inside. Sherlock and John looked puzzled, Sherlock recovering first and whispering into John's ear as he entered the cab.

"_Could be dangerous,_" John straightened and sat in the taxi next to Sherlock.

Sherlock could tell by the voice that the passenger was a woman. She had short black hair, like Sherlock's, except straight. John wondered if Sherlock's hair would look like that if he straightened it. The woman was clearly younger than the two of them and wore a purple tailed coat with skinny jeans and black canvas shoes. Next to her were a top hat and a cane with a large blue glass ball on the top. Her eyes were blue, but much more electric and piercing than Sherlock's. There was silence in the cab for ten minutes until Sherlock started with his questions.

"Alright, who are you and how do you know me?" his fingers steepled and his eyebrow raised in question.

"You tell me, Sherlock," she grinned and tilted her head slightly, shifting a glance to John as he sat quietly in confusion.

"You're Australian, I can tell from your accent…" the woman straightened her head and turned to Sherlock.  
"But?"  
"But, you have a hint of an English accent, meaning you've lived here long enough to acquire one. You come from a rich family, given the state of your clothes and your hair. Far too shiny for a common woman. You are introvert, thus very pale skinned but you have an even paler band across your left ring finger, showing that you've been married even though you're only…let's say… late twenties," the woman's face hadn't moved since he started, giving no hint of correction to Sherlock, which made him slightly annoyed, "your right hand is on top of your left as it's resting on your knee and your right leg is crossed over your left, so you're right-handed. You don't have a limp, your cane is too decorative for practical use."  
"So what am I?"  
"Intelligent. But not as intelligent as I am."  
"You think so?"  
"Positive," Sherlock said with a smile, "how did I do?"  
"Poorly," Sherlock's smile disappeared as her words slapped him in the face. _Poorly? Surely I am correct, when have I ever been wrong?_ He thought.

"Oh really? Do share." The woman grinned again.  
"Well, you did get a couple of things right, but I'll tell you the whole story. I am Australian but today is the first day I've been in England, my father was Irish but moved to England when he was young, thus obtaining an accent which he passed to me when he moved to Australia. My family is extremely poor but I've managed to get enough money on my own to afford this outfit. I am introvert, as people call me a freak, much like they do to you, dear Sherlock," John winced at the word 'freak'. He hated it when people called Sherlock a freak, "but the band on my finger was from a ring my mother gave me when I was young, too small for the middle, too large for the pinky. I'm twenty-one, and I'm not right handed, I'm left-handed, even slightly ambidextrous."  
"Amazing," Sherlock and the woman whipped their heads towards John, who sat there wide-eyed at the brilliance that filled the taxi. Sherlock scowled at the woman and she smiled warmly.

"I know everything about you, Sherlock. More than even you know. Even things you don't know about your friend…"she shot a sly grin towards John, who cowered slightly under her gaze.

"So where are you going?" John wondered, trying to steer the topic away from everyone's background story.

"You really are stupid, aren't you? It must be so terribly dull in your quaint little mind," Sherlock growled slightly, but only John seemed to hear, "I told you before you got in the cab that we were going to the same place."  
"Baker Street? What on earth would you be doing there?" He questioned again.

"Same thing you're doing, going home. 221 Baker Street."

"That's where we and Mrs Hudson live," snapped Sherlock, "I doubt there's any room in either flat for you to stay, and even if there was you're not living in our flat."  
"I'm afraid you misunderstand. I'm not living in 221a _or_ 221b, I'm moving into 221c. Mrs Hudson fixed the room especially for me."  
"Why would she do that?" Sherlock was furious, not only had this woman made a fool out of him, but she was moving into the room _underneath him?_ There has to be an explanation.

"You and Mrs Hudson are going to have to put up with me. You both were in on my father's death," as her sentence finished, the taxi pulled up outside 221 Baker Street. The woman got out first and moved her head inside of the taxi door, "The name's Xiakara and the address is 221c Baker Street" she winked and made a small clicking noise, imitating Sherlock when he had first met John.

John paced around the room, the events of the morning still flashing through his mind.

"Who was she? Why here, why now?" he gave up thinking and slumped into his chair, looking out the window for something remotely interesting before turning to Sherlock, lying on the sofa with his blue silk robe and his hands steepled under his resting face. He was deep in thought, clearly it was a nicotine patch problem, as he could see a couple where his sleeve had fallen past his elbow. "Three patches? This is a three patch problem?"  
"No, John, there are six, this is a six patch problem." Sherlock replied, his eyes still closed in thought.

"Six patches? Six nicotine patches? Sherlock, you'll kill yourself!"  
"I am aware," John opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and shook his head. Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head towards John, "problem?"  
"Yes, Sherlock, yes there is a problem. You get outsmarted by some stranger in a cab and now you're trying to kill yourself with nicotine!"  
"I wasn't outsmarted I was _fooled_. She is clever, I'll give her that. I can tell things about people because they are obvious habits. Normal people have obvious habits."  
"So she's not normal then?"  
"No…no, she's like me, and the cabbie from our first case…and Moriarty…"  
"A genius?"  
"Yes… How interesting… I have another genius living right underneath me."  
"It is interesting, isn't it?" Xiakara cooed. Sherlock sat up as a square of the floor shifted next to the sofa.

"What the…?" John started. Sherlock blushed as he realized she'd found his homemade garbage chute for when he was too busy to take it to the bin. 221c was probably littered in his old experiments. Mrs Hudson would probably make him pay extra for that.

"Sorry to intrude _boys,_" she glanced at Sherlock, who seemed to get more flustered by the emphasis she put on that last word, "I thought I'd make a suggestion for an experiment of yours," she produced a tub of margarine with the remnants of four fingers and a thumb inside. She pushed it to Sherlock's slippered foot, "Try sodium and sulfur," she winked at him as she pulled the floor back over the gap.

"What was that, Sherlock?" John had his hands on his hips as Sherlock looked at him in embarrassment, a look rarely seen by the doctor.  
"A…Garbage chute…"  
"A garbage chute?"  
"Yes."  
"A chute for garbage that leads to 221c, the room right underneath us?"  
"Yes."  
"Why is it there?"  
"I'm busy on garbage day."  
"You're-!" John started before throwing his hands up and heading to the door.

"Where are you going?"  
"Out, I need some air."  
"Don't leave me with-" the door slammed shut behind John and Sherlock could hear him storm down the stairs, "…_her_" he finished with a tone of resentment in his voice. He curled up onto the sofa and closed his eyes, trying to figure out his problem before John got home and became distracting.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock stood at the window as he watched John storm down the street. No doubt he was going to the pub. Not to drink, just to get lost in the crowd and have some time to think without being noticed. He sat back down on the sofa and ruffled his hair in frustration. _That woman, _he pondered, _will end up in more trouble than she's bargained for._

John sat at the empty table in the back of the pub. Maybe he had overreacted a little to Sherlock's laziness and untidiness. Maybe that woman made him edgy, but why? Sherlock was never wrong, never. He told John more than he knew about himself, knew what he was thinking before he said it, knew who he was before he explained. Sherlock had tried to do the same to the woman, so why had he failed, and how did the woman know him? She said she had only been in England for a day, so how could she have known it was him by just looking at him? This was strange, and if Sherlock couldn't figure it out, surely he couldn't. He looked up from the table and was met with a tilted head and a sly grin.

"I know about you, Dr. John Watson. I know about you and your sister _and _Afghanistan_," _Xiakara's voice was like poison, it irritated him, made him feel nauseous.  
"How do you know? You've only been in England for a day," John replied.  
"So trusting, John. Did it not cross your mind that there were one or two things I lied about?"  
"Like what?"  
"I've been in London for a while, but not as long as your partner thinks."  
"He's not my-"  
"I don't care if he is or isn't, you want him to be."  
"No, I-"  
"The night of the first case you had together is enough evidence, even for a fool. Brilliant, _amazing_. You couldn't help yourself, the deep, instant adoration you had for him leapt from your mouth after every deduction he made. Then, later on…yes, that was so powerfully compelling… when he stood on the rooftop, the moonlight bouncing off his pale skin, you looked around to see if anyone was watching you and then…stared… you stared at the mysterious man, his dark coat whipping in the wind, his body heaving, trying to catch his breath. It was a beautiful sight, wasn't it?"  
"How did you know about that?"  
"I was there. In disguise, obviously. You could have seen me from a mile away in these clothes. And before you jump to conclusions about my thoughts of that man, I considered it _artistically _beautiful. But I know you didn't," John was astonished. Like Sherlock, this woman knew more about him than he thought. But, did Sherlock know as much as her? "I have to dash, I have to have a word with our topic of the day. You're welcome to follow, if you can keep up," John smiled smugly, if he could keep up with a man who was skinnier and taller than he was, surely he could keep up with her. He followed her out of the pub and the smug look disappeared from his face faster than she did. Xiakara jumped onto the sign and swung herself onto the window before climbing to the roof. She sprinted across the top and leapt from building to building, pushing off objects and kicking from wall to wall. _Parkour, _he thought, _she knows parkour. Who is this woman?_

*~*  
Sherlock could hear footsteps on the stairs, but they weren't John's or Mrs. Hudson's. he got up from the sofa and pulled the jackknife from the stack of paper on the mantle. He stood next to the door as it opened slowly and thrust the knife into the hallway.  
"Hello to you too, Sherlock," Xiakara had the blade of the knife in between her fingers and was pushing him back as she entered his flat, "this is quite a nice place you've got. I've just been chatting with your friend."  
"And _I've _just been looking you up on the internet."  
"Anything useful?"  
"A few internet accounts and that's about it."  
"I know. Did you read my stories?"  
"The ones on ? I did read a few…"  
"They're about you, you know."  
"I figured that much. They also featured a John character, didn't they? I was quite…surprised at the things they did."  
"It was based on evidence."  
"What evidence?"  
"You and him. From the very first day you met. Like that moment in Angelo's."  
"You were there?"  
"I was chasing the criminal. And I would have caught him _alive_ if it weren't for your stunt. Anyway, I saw that moment between you when John inquired about your sexuality. Everyone thinks you're asexual, don't they? But you let yourself slip. You said women weren't your area but then you were "flattered by John's 'offer'," Sherlock's face went crimson as he realized he shouldn't have said that, not there.  
"Why are you doing this?" his voice was dry, seeming as though it was on the verge of tears. He could hide his face, but not his voice.  
"To break you down, Sherlock. To ruin you so completely that you'll have nothing left. You're not perfect and you know it. You're addicted. Addicted to drugs, addicted to crime scenes and addicted to John. When you were in trouble that night, when your plan went wrong, it wasn't help you called for, it was John. It's him you call for every time you need someone or something, and he comes. You know why he comes, don't you? You call for him to test him, to see what you mean to him and every time he does you get your result. You've let yourself go, Sherlock, and it's only a matter of time before you lose control and I take your place as the only consulting detective in the world. You know I'm far better than you will ever be, so just give up before it kills you." Sherlock's mouth opened and closed. He was speechless. This woman had, for the second time today, outsmarted him. He needed John. He needed him now.

**A/N  
Hello there. This is the second chapter and the first A/N as you can plainly see. There are some parts in here that are from the pilot of "A Study In Pink", if you haven't seen it I suggest you do. The rooftop scene is amazing…I wish they'd have kept it in the actual episode, Benedict is so breathtaking… *Ahem* anyway, You've met my OC, Xiakara (pronounced Sha-ka-ra), who has dissected Sherlock and John's relationship. Don't worry, this is the only time she's going to talk this much, in later chapters she goes off and leaves them to get back to work. I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Dangle-Cat, who has had a bit of a hard time lately and needs someone to lean on, much like Sherlock needs John at the end here, except I'm self-proclaimed Sherlock and I've named her John. But that's a different story. Hope you enjoyed reading this so far and I'll get some chapters up as soon as I can.  
SH**


	3. Chapter 3

"I don't like this," Sherlock complained, dipping his teaspoon in and out of the wine glass. The white substance it contained had flecks of brown, red and pink. It fell off the spoon in chunks, splashing from the glass and dripping down the side.  
"It's just ice-cream, Sherlock, it's not going to kill you. It'll make you feel better," John's breath caught as he watched Sherlock lick the side of the glass, catching the rogue trickle of his now melted ice-cream. Sherlock was analyzing the dessert in his delicate fingers, turning it slightly in the light.  
"I don't need to feel better, I'm fine."  
"You were on the brink of tears when I got back and you won't tell me what happened."  
"No I wasn't," John sighed at Sherlock's stubbornness, he reminded John of a small child.  
"Why won't you tell me what she said?"  
"Why won't you tell me what she said to _you?"_ Sherlock rebutted. John's face was a sea of crimson. He couldn't tell him about the night she saw him. Perhaps…perhaps she said the same thing to Sherlock…  
"Did she…" It couldn't hurt to ask, right? "Did she talk about the first night?" John could feel himself staring; he hadn't kept his eyes off him since he started examining the liquefied dessert. Sherlock shifted his gaze from the glass to John, narrowing his eyes. John leaned back in his chair, his breathing becoming shallow.  
"How do you know?" Sherlock's voice had become low and husky. He was still holding the glass and John's mind filled with images of him licking that creamy substance off Sherlock's bare chest. John turned his head to the floor. His breath was gone, raced out of him like the thoughts he had previously. He heard the glass rest on the table and looked back up to see Sherlock's hands in his infamous prayer position under his chin. One eyebrow was raised at him and his eyes pierced into John's very being. There was no way he could have kept this from him for long, "anyway, we already cleared this on the night. I'm married to my work."  
"No, Sherlock, she didn't talk to me about Angelo's…"  
"Then what?"  
"The crime scene…" Sherlock tilted his head in confusion.  
"John, I knew you were itching to see a crime scene but I didn't think-"  
"No! No, not _about _the crime scene, about what happened after you left," John's face was flushing deeper; anyone who entered the room would have sworn he stood in the sun without sun cream for a week.  
"What happened when I left?"  
"Well, you didn't leave exactly…"  
"Oh," Sherlock's face softened at his revelation. _The roof, he must be talking about the roof…_ _but what about the roof?  
_"Perhaps we shouldn't talk about this," as though reading his mind, Sherlock's phone beeped with a message.  
_FROM: Lestrade  
Sherlock, we need you. You know where we are. Lestrade.  
_"Brilliant!" Sherlock nearly jumped onto the table, his hands curled into fists and shaking in the air.  
"What is it, Sherlock?"  
"The distraction we've been looking for all day! Come on, John!" Sherlock was out the door by the time John had his jacket on.

Sherlock was staring out the window of the taxi like he usually did when there was silence in the vehicle. John glanced at him a few times and tapped his fingers on his knees awkwardly. "Uh…you…you hungry, Sherlock?"  
"What day is it?"  
"Thursday…" Sherlock looked up at the roof of the taxi, as if to read the answer from the hard, dark shell.  
"I'm fine for a few days."  
"It's not good, you know."  
"What's not good?"  
"Not eating. People need to eat, and sleep…and talk."  
"I'm not people, you know that."  
"But you _are _a person," _a beautiful person…_John's eyes widened at this thought. Twice in one day? This was unusual for John, usually he could control himself. He would have to be careful not to vocalise these thoughts today.  
"So just because I'm a person, I have to act like people?"  
"You could try."  
"The reason why I don't," Sherlock whipped his head around angrily to face John, whose face was lit up in innocence, "is because people are idiots. I thought you knew this, or are you stupider than I first thought?" those words cut deeply into John, his heart fell and he felt pathetic.  
"Stop the taxi," the cabbie nodded and the taxi came to a stop on the side of the road, "get out," Sherlock looked surprised, but his then his face crinkled in worry.  
"John, I-"  
"I said, Get. Out. You can walk to the crime scene by yourself, I'm going home,"  
"John, please…I'm sorry," this was rare, an apology from Sherlock? Something must be wrong with him.  
"I'll meet you back at the flat, if you're lucky," Sherlock stepped out onto the cold, wet street. He couldn't remember when it had started raining, he wasn't paying attention to the weather when he looked out the window, he was staring at John's reflection. The door slammed shut behind him and the wind whipped fiercely at his coat as the black car drove away from him.

_TO: Sherlock_  
_FROM: Lestrade  
Where are you? I've been waiting nearly an hour! Lestrade._

TO: Lestrade  
FROM: Sherlock  
Had a bit of a fight. He should be on his way. Sorry for the delay. He left his phone here. John.

TO: Sherlock  
FROM: Lestrade  
You didn't go with him? Doesn't he need you as an assistant or something? Lestrade.

TO: Lestrade  
FROM: Sherlock  
Maybe, but I don't need him. Not anymore. John.

TO: Lestrade, Sherlock  
FROM: Blocked  
Sherlock won't be joining you today, he has other plans. X

TO: Sherlock  
FROM: Lestrade  
Did you get a message from this X person? Who is it? Lestrade.

TO: Lestrade  
FROM: Sherlock  
WE NEED TO FIND SHERLOCK, NOW!  
*~*


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock woke in a dark room, his hands bound to a chair. He was soaking wet, so obviously he hadn't been there for long, but he couldn't remember what happened. He remembered stepping out into the rain, walking towards the crime scene and then darkness. He pulled at his bonds but they were expertly tied, if he moved any more the multiples of thin rope would cut into his flesh. The sound of a projector cut through the air and light spewed onto a screen that came seemingly from nowhere. A red question mark flickered on the screen, and a voice filled his ears.  
"Sherlock," he could tell it was disguised; it was a mixture of a high and low pitched voice, "who. Do. You. See?" The voice was slow, an agonizing pause between each word. A picture replaced the question mark, one of his brother, Mycroft. Sherlock was amazed that someone had actually been able to photograph him.  
"Mycroft. I see Mycroft," Sherlock was calm and collected but had an underlying cautiousness about him. What was the point in all this?  
"Who. Is. Mycroft. To. You?"  
"My brother," A shock coursed through Sherlock's body through his wrists which, he now realized, weren't bound with rope but with some kind of metal.  
"Liars. Are. Punished," Sherlock panted as the pain left him, "who. Is. Mycroft. To. You?"  
"My arch-enemy," he braced himself for the shock, but It didn't come. Instead, Mycroft's picture was replaced with another person.  
"Who. Do. You. See?"  
"Molly."  
"How. Does. Molly. Feel. About. You?"  
"I don't know, she's a colleague I guess," another shock shot through him and he cried in pain  
"Liars. Are. Punished."  
"She fancies me," he whimpered, "she fancies me and I take advantage of it."  
"What. Do. You. See?" a video flashed onto the screen, a man was running down the street Sherlock remembered walking down, drenched in rain and breathing heavily.  
"John running down a street."  
"What. Is. He. Shouting?" Sherlock could see John's mouth screaming something. One word, but he couldn't read it off his lips.  
"I don't know, I can't hear," heavy panting filled the room, and he realized the sound from the video had been turned on.  
"Sherlock! Sherlock!" he could hear from the sound of John's voice that he was crying, thought the rain made it harder to tell if there were actual tears or whether they were drops of rain.  
"Sherlock…He's calling my name."  
"Why?" the voice remained emotionless, and Sherlock could see no point to any of this.  
"He's looking for me."  
"Why?"  
"He's worried…"  
"Why?"  
"Because he cares about me."  
"Why?"  
"Because he's a good friend!" Sherlock's irritation at the repeated 'why' was cut off with the shock through his system, "He's my flatmate," another shock, "Because…" Sherlock couldn't think of any reason other than…_Oh, _he thought, _he…he…  
_"Loves me…"  
"Repeat."  
"Because he loves me!" Sherlock screamed, nearly as loud as John in the video.  
"How. Can. You. Love. When. You. Are. Dead?"  
"What?" Sherlock plastered his eyes to the screen, watching John stop in the middle of the street, out of breath. His breath caught as he inhaled through his nose. He started to sprint away from the building, but was knocked over by the force of the house that had just exploded behind him, "No! John!" The wires that bound Sherlock to the chair unclasped.  
"Way. Out. Is. Behind. You," Sherlock ran to the back of the room, searching in the darkness for a knob or a handle. He found an emergency exit bar handle and pushed out onto the quiet, stormy street. He could see John halfway up the street, lying still amongst the rubble of the house. Sherlock ran over to him, tears streaming down his face. He knelt next to the still body of John, hugging his face with his hands.  
"John," he called softly, "John…Wake up, John, please…" he looked down John's body and saw a large shard of glass sticking out above his diaphragm, "no…" he grabbed John's shoulders and shook him lightly, "Wake up! John, I'm here! Wake up! Don't you dare die on me! I'm lost without my blogger…" John's eyes opened very slightly, and his soft voice whispered in the rain.  
"Sherlock…"  
"Yes, John, it's me, Sherlock! I'm going to take you to a hospital, hang on!"  
"Sherlock…I love you…" Sherlock's tears fell onto John's face as he lifted the man in his long, bony arms.  
"I love you too, John. I'm sorry."  
"Aww, how sweet!" a familiar voice came from behind Sherlock. He turned and faced the source of the noise, who was pulling off their top hat and wig and discarding two fake breasts into the remains of the building. "You remember me, Sherlock? I missed you, you know. You're lucky your new boyfriend here smelt the gas before the building exploded, it's more fun when they're dying in someone's arms.  
"You…"  
"Yep, me. Did you miss me? Nah I can tell you didn't, you would have called," the figure grinned and tilted their head to the side. Sherlock had to escape, and he had to do it now.  
*~*


	5. Chapter 5

"Moriarty," Sherlock growled, clenching the dying John in his arms. John gasped lightly at the pressure placed on his arms and legs, his eyes closed softly, like he was sleeping against the cloaked man.  
"You _do _remember! I was getting a little worried, you know," Sherlock scowled at him and subtly shifted his gaze around, trying to find something that would give him a window of escape.  
"You're unarmed, aren't you?" Moriarty thought with a loud 'hmm' before stepping towards Sherlock.  
"Yeah, didn't feel like taking my snipers along with me. But then again, you're unarmed too," Moriarty smiled at Sherlock, who was still scowling fiercely at him.  
"You underestimate me, Moriarty," Sherlock said huskily, stepping away from him. Moriarty tilted his head in confusion and widened his eyes as Sherlock whipped his foot up and sent a piece of brick flying into Moriarty's eye, he cringed, cried and doubled over in pain and Sherlock took this opportunity to run. As he fled down the street, clutching the weak and paling John, he could hear Moriarty cursing at him, regretting that he didn't bring backup. Sherlock could feel John's warm breath faintly on his neck, but it was shallow. He was running out of time. He bounded out onto the main road and nearly screamed for a taxi to stop and take him to the hospital.

"He's been in there for ages," Sgt. Donovan complained, "when can we ask our questions and go home?" she and Lestrade had been called to the hospital by the staff who claimed there was a hysterical man abusing them with a wounded man in his arms. Lestrade was concerned that it was a psychopath and was only a little surprised when he saw which one it was. They had been there for at least four hours and the whole time Sherlock sat in John's room, neither of them moving or speaking. John was resting from his injury and severe loss of blood and Sherlock hadn't taken his eyes off him since he was allowed in his room. He sat in the chair next to his bed and held John's hand in his own, his gloves sitting on the side table. Sgt. Donovan was too impatient to see it, but Lestrade noticed a change in that man, and he decided it was best to leave them alone for the time being.  
"Let's wait back at the station, we can call in on them later," Lestrade signaled for her to follow.  
"Whatever," she rolled her eyes at him and hurried out of the hospital.

John's chest ached as he woke, not just from the physical wound he had obtained from the explosion, but because he couldn't see Sherlock from where he was lying. He slowly rose from his bed and stepped into the hallway in front of his room. He heard the faint screeching of the violin downstairs and smiled as he thought of Sherlock's delicate hands moving across the stings of the beautiful instrument, no matter how horrible it sounded. He moved forward onto the stairs but stopped as the first step squeaked under him. He heard the clatter of the violin and the rush of footsteps before seeing Sherlock's scarily beaming face at the bottom of the stairway.  
"John!" he called as he ran up the steps.  
"Sher-Sherlock? What are you- ahhhh!" he cried. Sherlock had reached the hallway and scooped the smaller man up in his arms, carrying him to the sofa and pushing over a wine glass.  
"Eat it," Sherlock encouraged, "it'll make you feel better," John picked up the spoon inside the glass and realized the contents were similar to the dessert he had made the other day, except more melted.  
"Uh… I don't think I can…" Sherlock's smile disappeared slowly.  
"Why not?" _Was he…pouting?_ John thought, _what on earth is up with him?  
_"It's…Melted…"  
"Oh…you want me to make tea instead?"  
"Wait, how did you make this in the first place? You can't cook at all!"  
"It wasn't solid to begin with, if that helps."  
"Right. Oh, no thanks, I'm fine just resting here,"  
"Want me to play my violin?"  
"You can actually play it?" Sherlock looked at him in insult.  
"Of course I can play. I just like to annoy people with its screeching," he smiled as he picked up the shining instrument and held it to his shoulder. Unsatisfied with his suit jacket in the way, he removed it and rolled up his sleeves. John's breath caught as he examined the fragile, pale forearms moving delicately across the violin. The notes swirling in John's ears made him close his eyes and envelop himself in the melody. He knew this one, he was pretty sure it was called 'kite'. He could feel the emotion escaping from the holes in the dark wood. John wished he could play an instrument, or at least sing so he could join this brilliant man in his musical genius. Sherlock had his eyes closed also, unsure that John knew he was humming along or not. He wondered if John could sing. In fact, Sherlock was so busy showing off his talents all the time that he had failed to recognize any of John's talents. The song came to an end and Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, the pale blue irises glittering in the early morning sun that shone through the window. He could see John still lying on the sofa, his chest slowly rising and falling. He seemed to be asleep, so Sherlock leaned over and stroked his jaw. John's head turned into his hand and Sherlock moved from the chair to sit next to him. He pulled John into his arms as he lay down, Sherlock's stomach to John's back. He nuzzled into the back of John's head and started whispering into his ear.  
"I won't leave you again, I promise. I thought I lost you," Sherlock chuckled softly, his husky, growling voice making John shiver in his sleep, "you're a fool, John Watson. You shouldn't come chasing after me without a good reason."  
"I do," John's lax voice shocked Sherlock slightly before he realized he was talking in his sleep.  
"Tell me why. I want to hear it again," Sherlock pushed his nose into John's hair breathing into his ear, "tell me."  
"I love you," those three words filled Sherlock's chest with warmth, he needed more, needed to hear more of those sweet words that hooked him like cocaine.  
"Tell me again. I want to hear you say my name."  
"I love you, Sherlock," he mumbled in his sleep.  
"More, tell me more, say my full name," Sherlock held him tightly, the rush of this new feeling rising inside of him.  
"I love you, Sherlock Holmes," John squirmed lightly as Sherlock planted soft, tender kisses along his neck. John let out a disappointed groan as Sherlock stopped the kisses. He got up slowly from the sofa, collecting the doctor in his arms like he had done before. There was something about the way John looked in his arms when he did this that just made Sherlock feel so comfortable with him. He carried John back up to his bed and slid in behind him. He held John to his chest as he too drifted to sleep. Lifting up John's shirt, he lightly scratched the words 'I love you too' onto his back, leaving bright red lines he hoped John would see when he looked in the mirror after he got up.

**A/N  
Hello again. Just wanted to let all the readers know that I actually didn't much like my OC and that's why I changed her. I'm trying to find inspiration for a crime scene but am having a bit of difficulty. Rest assured there will be an actual crime in the next chapter.  
Thanks for reading thus far.  
SH**


	6. Chapter 6

The doctor let the warm water run over his strengthening body, the thoughts of the occurrences that proceeded not two hours ago streaming through his mind. He had taken his shirt off after waking up to find a faint red message in his lower abdomen. After he dried himself, he returned to his bed and laid down on the mass of lumped blankets. There was something hard in his bed. A soft groan was heard through the sheets and John nearly had a heart attack.  
"Sherlock! What are you-?"  
"Oh, morning John, again," John could see Sherlock stretching like a cat under the blanket and pulled off the covers to get a better look at the man, hoping that he was fully clothed under there. John breathed a sigh of half-relief when he saw the outfit he was wearing before still in use. He was a cat to John, a Cheshire cat. He was mysterious and almost magical the way he appeared and disappeared, smiling widely when something interesting occurred. He was John's Cheshire cat, Sherlock Holmes.

John snapped back to reality as his phone beeped on the bedside table. Sherlock beat him to it, opening the message with glee as John realized it must have been from Lestrade. Sherlock's face fell as he read the message.  
"What is it, Sherlock?" John was worried. What could Lestrade have said to make Sherlock look like that?  
"You don't want to know," he replied blankly.  
"Yes I do. If it worries you this much I want to know," John reached for his phone but Sherlock pulled it to his chest. The wrestled for five minutes before John had Sherlock in a headlock, the detective squirming and flailing behind John's body. Sherlock dropped the phone on John's lap when the doctor squeezed his neck gently but firmly, signaling the futility of escape from him. John quickly picked up the phone as Sherlock recovered and his face turned nearly as pale as the man spluttering next to him.  
_  
TO: John  
FROM: Lestrade  
I already tried messaging Sherlock, so I thought I'd tell you. It pains me to say this but your sister Harry was found dead this morning in a warehouse. We've got a car coming to take Sherlock there but I'm not sure you'd want to come. I'm so sorry for your loss, John. Lestrade.  
_  
"Ha…Harry? No, no it can't be," John was clearly in shock. Sherlock held him close to try and comfort him, whispering in his ear that he didn't have to come if it would hurt him, "no, Sherlock, I have to go. I have to see her for myself. A car pulled up outside the flat and Sherlock led the still injured John down the stairs and into the dark car.

John and Sherlock were led into the damp, abandoned warehouse where Harry lay. John seemed to be holding himself together, but Sherlock knew this was tearing him apart. He admired John in this way, that he had been both physically and emotionally tortured but still managed to stand by Sherlock's side. Sherlock leaned in on the motionless figure, examining her like he had done so many times before. Harry was in a white nightgown and that was basically it. She still had her underwear on and her hair was tangled slightly, like she had fallen asleep and hadn't woken up. But they were the finer details. The thing that stood out the most about her was the burning. It wasn't just one; it was many, all over her body. They were tiny words. Sherlock pulled out his magnifying lens to see the writing clearly. He knew he would never allow John to read this properly. Just one word repeated thousands of times.  
_**INSIGNIFICANT  
**_Sherlock could smell the horrible scent that followed Harry around whenever she visited, but this time it was stronger. She had been doused in alcohol and _branded_. If Sherlock was an ordinary person he imagined that he would be disgusted. But he wasn't ordinary, obviously, the only reason why this murder affected him was because it affected John.  
Anderson sneered at Sherlock with his stupidly unnecessary information.  
"She's been burnt-"  
"Obviously." Sherlock sighed while giving John a look that signaled that it would get heated in here so John left and waited outside.  
"Shut up, freak. We aren't sure what caused the burns but she smells of alcohol so she must have been drinking," Anderson continued.  
"The burns were caused by a heated iron being pressed into her alcohol-drenched body. She wasn't drinking, she was injected with more alcohol and that combined with the burning led to her death. Understand?" Anderson scoffed at Sherlock's analysis.  
"Where was she injected then?" Anderson sneered again. He was quite an unattractive man and Sherlock wondered what his wife and Sgt. Donovan saw in him, not that he cared.  
"Right there," Sherlock pointed to a small blood stain on the night gown in front of where Harry's heart was. The stain was so tiny Sherlock wasn't surprised that nobody spotted it. Not that they would have even if it covered the whole of her gown. They were stupid like that in Sherlock's head. Sherlock needed to go home and think, not just because Anderson was lowering the IQ of London with each word but because that was where he kept his "thought stimulants". He told Lestrade he needed to research and Lestrade shooed him off with a sigh. Sherlock ran out to the street and signaled a taxi, completely forgetting that John was still at the scene.

John wandered sulkily into 221b and was immediately hit with the bitter aroma of coffee. He heard rapid typing coming from within the room and opened the door with curiosity. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa in only his shorts, sweating profusely and typing at an inhumane speed on his laptop. A cup was sitting on the coffee table in front of him and John wondered if he was high.  
"Sherlock?" John started, "are you…are you umm…high?"  
"Hi," Sherlock answered quickly, "no."  
"Then how are you typing like that?" the next sentence John heard shot out of Sherlock's mouth so fast it sounded like one giant word.  
"," John could barely make out each word but got the gist of what he was saying.  
"How much coffee? How many of these?" John held up the mug that was on the coffee table. Sherlock gave it a quick glance and resumed typing.  
"Notoneofthosesixof_those_," he pointed to a large cup on the bench.  
"Six of these?" John held up the large mug and looked at the measurements on it, "SIX PINTS? YOU HAD SIX PINTS OF COFFEE?" John's head nearly exploded, "did you at least have milk in it?"  
"Nomilkdon'," John rubbed his eyes with one hand. No wonder why he was sweating so badly, his brain must be overheating. Hopefully it didn't crash, although that would be interesting to see.  
"I'm going to bed. Don't have a nervous breakdown, okay?"  
"NoIpromisegoodnightIloveyou,"  
"What? What did you say?"  
"'''llhavethiscasesortedbythen."  
"Right…umm…good luck with that," _note to self: Don't ever buy coffee again, _John thought. He swore Sherlock said 'I love you' but in his current state John couldn't be sure. Although that would explain the message on his back from this morning, but he remembered it had a 'too' at the end. John thought it best not to think about it too much, there wasn't enough room in his head to deal with this right now.

John woke in the middle of the night to movement right next to him. Sherlock had crawled into his bed and, by the look of it, was shivering in between John and the wall. John reached out and placed his hand on Sherlock's forehead, it was warm, not feverish, just warm but it was dripping in sweat. Sherlock's eyes were tightly closed and he was panting and groaning slightly.  
"Sherlock?" John tapped the side of Sherlock's face to try and wake him.  
"John…John, no…"  
"Oh," John realized Sherlock was having a nightmare. He didn't know Sherlock had nightmares, in fact he never even suspected him of dreaming, "Sherlock it's alright, I'm here. Wake up and see, I'm right beside you, okay?"  
"Don't leave me, John," Sherlock's eyes were still closed, but not as tightly, letting a small tear escape. John was surprised. He had never seen him really cry.  
"I…I won't, I promise."  
"Don't die, please. I can't live without you. I feel so…insignificant…" _insignificant, _the word rang through John's head. He realized it was the word that was burned onto his sister, but he hadn't mentioned it to Sherlock, he was too hurt emotionally to even speak to him.  
"Sherlock, why are you saying this? Why am I dying?"  
"I love you, don't leave me alone, please."  
"Sherlock, tell me why? Why are you insignificant? Why did you say that?"  
"He told me to. He told me to do it."  
"Told you to do what? Sherlock, tell me!" John was practically shaking Sherlock awake, he wanted answers, and he wanted them now. Sherlock's eyes opened, but he wasn't awake. They were glazed over and he looked possessed. He scowled at John and gripped his throat, almost choking him.  
"I will burn the heart out of you," he said in a voice that wasn't his. It was his same husky tone but his accent was different. It sounded…Irish… Sherlock's eyes widened and the glaze softened. He released his hands from John's neck and stared at them in shock. He scrambled against the corner of the bed, up against the wall, panting and staring at John. He was like a deer in headlights, and Sherlock, as though acting on this analogy, bounded out of both the room and the flat and into the cold night air.

**A/N  
I got the idea for the coffee scene when I had two cups of coffee and confirmed with my dad (who knows a lot more about pints than I do) that six pints of straight black coffee is seriously a lot of coffee. I'm surprised he's not dead. Well, not really, he's Sherlock! Oh, yeah, and I forgot to mention that I don't own Sherlock or John (well I do on deviantart but that's beside the point) and if I did I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be writing stories ;D  
SH**


	7. Chapter 7

"My God," John thought aloud, "what did Moriarty do to him?" he looked out of the lounge room window to see Sherlock, still in his pyjamas and silk robe, running away from the flat. Running away from_ him_.

Sherlock burst through the metal door of the alley near where John had almost died. Everything was as he remembered: the chair he was tortured in, the projector and screen that had haunted him and the speakers that drilled Moriarty's disguised voice into Sherlock's head. What he didn't notice before, however, were the tiny lights above the chair. If they had been turned on, they would have shone on each of the walls. He found another doorway behind the projection screen which took him up to what seemed to be the control room. There were many switches and dials on the panel in front of him, and above that a window that you couldn't see into from the outside. Sherlock flicked the switch labeled 'H-Lights' and a red swirl appeared on the walls around the chair in the room.  
"What the-?" Sherlock pondered, clearly confused.  
"It's called hypnotism, Sherlock. I thought you'd have figured that out," Sherlock jumped a little at the voice that appeared behind him, realizing that Moriarty was still using this place, meaning the police hadn't tracked him yet. _Typical, _he thought.  
"What did you do to me?"  
"Oh, you know, planted some seeds, set some trigger words, the usual."  
"Why?"  
"Because we're made for each other, Sherlock. Even if I have to force you, you _will_ be on my side."  
"I will never join you. You hurt John."  
"You hurt him more."  
"How?"  
"Well, you did kill his sister, for one," Sherlock's eyes widened and his heart fell.  
"No, no I couldn't have…"  
"Liars are punished, Sherlock," Sherlock dropped to the floor in pain, as though electricity was running through his body. He was confused, there was no conductor and no power source, "mmm, that's the great thing about trigger words, once you hear one, your body does what I want it to."  
"I'm guessing that was a trigger phrase, that whenever I hear that sentence I feel like I'm being electrocuted?" Sherlock panted, wondering how many triggers Moriarty had planted in his head, "how many are there, then?"  
"Oh, so many. So many I had to write them down," Moriarty grinned and pulled out a small book with a pen. He scrolled through the list and murmured to himself, "ooh! Here's a good one! 'Moriarty'!" Sherlock bent down in front of Moriarty, propped up on one knee. His right arm wrapped around his stomach and he bowed his head. He was like a peasant bowing to a king, and he hated it. He also hated Moriarty's next trigger word.  
"Do you like me, Kitten?" Moriarty giggled.  
"Yes, master," _Kitten? Of all the words, why kitten?_ Sherlock wondered  
"Will you kill for me, Kitten?"  
"Yes, master," _this is so demeaning, _Sherlock thought, _I hate being called a kitten.  
_"Do you know why I call you that? Because you are my little baby cat, so weak, so fluffy, so smart and loyal to me. Don't you agree, Kitten?"  
"Yes, master." Moriarty giggled with glee. It was sickening. He returned to his little book and made marks next to his favourites, "how long are you going to insult me like this?"  
"Shut up, Kitten."  
"Yes, master," Sherlock frowned. He had no control anymore. Maybe he _did_ kill Harry. _No, it wasn't me,_ he realized, _it was him controlling me. But how did I not realize I was doing it?  
_"You know there's a phrase in here that erases your memory of events that happen over a different time."  
"What do you mean?"  
"Well," Moriarty explained, "If I say this particular word, your memory of the past five minutes goes away, if I say this one it's ten, this one's twenty and so on," _oh, I see_, Sherlock thought.  
"let's try out some more, hey Kitten?"  
"Yes, master."  
*~*

John was resting on the sofa, the aroma from yesterday still hanging in the air. _Where did Sherlock go? _He wondered, _and why is it taking him so long to come back? _He at least took this time to settle down from the past few days' events. Sherlock still played on his mind. He had acted so strangely since the explosion. He was worried, that was a given, but this 'love' thing that cropped up everywhere was frightening him. What had he said when Sherlock found him in that street? He tried to think back to what happened, what he said. Then he remembered Sherlock wrote bits of what happened to be used for his blog when he was better. He reached into the abandoned trench coat to find the notepad still in Sherlock's coat pocket. Notes were scribbled in Sherlock's spidery writing:  
_Gas explosion. John was harmed. An approximate 5x20x0.2cm shard of glass above the diaphragm (Width x Height x Depth). John declared his inner emotions as he slipped out of consciousness. Xiakara=Moriarty, Moriarty injured by a piece of brick expertly kicked by the one and only Sherlock Holmes.  
_John giggled at that last piece of writing.  
_An unknown amount of time was spent in the hospital with John. After he was well enough, I took him home to the flat. John was too tired and hurt to remember the journey. He came downstairs the next morning and I played my violin for him. He fell back asleep and again revealed his emotions towards me. I feel the same. SH  
_"Love…" John whispered, "he can feel that?" John suddenly remembered back to last night, when Sherlock was typing and high on caffeine. He opened Sherlock's laptop. Password protected, of course. There was a clue, though. He clicked on the hint button and was puzzled by it.  
**1/45  
**_One sentence? No, it's too silly. A word? What word has 45 letters? _John's eyes widened, he knew this word, he learnt of it when he trained at Bart's. He could hardly spell it let alone say it, but he knew where to reference it from. He pulled a book off the shelf and flicked to the index. He knew it started with 'P' so at least that was of some help. It took 20 seconds before he found it and started typing it in:  
**  
**He found the open document that Sherlock had been typing the night before. It seemed that his brain was going so fast he didn't know what he was doing, but subconsciously he was crying for help: _Help me Help me Help me Help me Help me Help me Help me Help me Help me Help me Help me  
_that sentence filled twenty pages of the document. He was worried, where was Sherlock now?  
*~*

Lestrade sat at his desk, clearly perplexed by the case of Harriet Watson. Sherlock hadn't been of much use either. He seemed distracted, more so than usual. As if reading his mind, Sherlock appeared at the entrance to Lestrade's office. Lestrade stood up and greeted him, but his half-cheery face frowned in puzzlement at Sherlock's state. He was in his pyjamas, his hair was a mess, like he had just gotten out of bed, and his eyes seemed glazed. He smiled at Lestrade and spoke in a husky Irish accent.  
"Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm here to punish you."  
"What? Sherlock what are you-?" he was cut off by his own screaming as Sherlock plunged a jackknife into his chest, just above his diaphragm. _Just like John's wound, _Lestrade thought through the pain, _except his was with glass. Or was it? _It really wasn't the time to be thinking, he _was _bleeding to death. Another voice came from behind Sherlock, a thicker accent than Sherlock's new one, but similar nonetheless.  
"Do you like my new toy, Inspector? He does all kinds of fun things. Don't you, Kitten?"  
"Yes, master."  
"What kind of sick bastard are you?" Lestrade cried in anger.  
"The best kind there is," he turned to face Sherlock and grinned as he commanded his 'toy', "time to burn, Kitten," Sherlock reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a small blowtorch and a metal brand.  
"Yes, master."

*~*

**A/N  
Interesting. It'd be so wonderful if Sherlock (and, in turn, Benedict Cumberbatch [best name ever!]) actually did this, wouldn't it? I'd be just like Moriarty, except not trying to use him as a murder weapon, just a weapon of mass sexiness XD well, he doesn't need help for that!  
The kitten thing (I now realize) sounds like Sebastian in Kuroshitsuji, only slightly though! Oh yes, by the way, I'm not American but my computer's dictionary is, so sorry for American auto corrects like 'realize' instead of 'realise' I really just can't be bothered fixing them if they're little like that.  
Hope you enjoy the rest still to come. I'd love to know how many people have read this but FF won't let me view traffic *pout***

Also by the way, I can actually say , it confuses so many people and they ask me to say it over and over so they can try to say it, which is funny when they fail. It's one of my favourite words and I love showing it off XP  
See you in the next chapter!  
SH


	8. Chapter 8

John was woken by the sound of the flat door opening. He had been waiting at the windowsill for Sherlock for the entire day, and as a result had fallen asleep there. He pulled his gun from his belt and pointed it towards the door. He was drowsy, but his aiming would be accurate enough to at least injure the intruder, he hoped. His finger squeezed lightly on the trigger but softened as a pale, bony hand curled around the door. Sherlock poked his head in and took a look around the flat, hoping john had gone to bed and he could sneak off to his own. He couldn't see John in the darkness and crept into the seemingly empty flat. His heart nearly stopped as he saw the movement against the windowsill. He pressed himself against the wall, his silk robe hanging loosely from his arms. John peeled him from the wall and embraced the cold, damp detective, his eyes filled with tears.  
"Where were you? Please, please tell me where you were," John clutched him tightly and cried into his chest, "I was so worried, I thought you were…just, tell me where you were, okay?"  
"I…I don't know," Sherlock stood awkwardly with a baffled look on his face, like John was some alien disease that had attached itself to him. But what he said was true. He couldn't remember what had happened or where he was. He knew where he was now, however, and that the man holding him was his John.  
"What do you mean you don't know? You were gone for the whole day- in your pyjamas!"  
"Yes…but I... I don't know what happened. I left… and now I'm back. Everything else is a blur…" John looked up at him. Sherlock seemed distant and distracted. He probably needed sleep, too.  
"I'm going to bed, Sherlock, I suggest you do the same," John then went upstairs and into his room. Sherlock followed quietly, so quietly that John didn't hear him on the stairs, or in his room. In fact, John only noticed when Sherlock wrapped his arms around his half naked body.  
"Fuck, Sherlock! You nearly gave me a heart attack!" Sherlock pushed John onto the bed suddenly and started pulling at his jeans, "Sherlock, what are you doing?"  
"I don't know," his voice was faint and distant, with a hint of sadness and confusion.  
"Then stop, please!" John's jeans were slowly being pulled down his legs. He thought of fighting back, but he didn't want to hurt Sherlock, not in this state. Sherlock pinned down his arms with his bony legs, leaving him no choice but to lie underneath him.  
"I…can't," he grimaced as he tried to fight himself, fight these urges that had been planted inside him.  
"Why are you doing this, Sherlock?"  
"I thought you wanted to play with him, John," came a voice from the doorway. _Moriarty, _John thought, he knew that accent anywhere.  
"Why is he doing this, what did you do?" John was furious at the half blind man that stood in the doorway and mocked them, furious that he had tampered with Sherlock.  
"Kitten?" John was confused at this statement.  
"Yes, master?" Sherlock's glazed voice replied.  
"Shut him up, Kitten," Moriarty threw a roll of duct tape at Sherlock and Sherlock looked at John, pain in his eyes.  
"Yes, master," Sherlock pulled at the silver tape, not looking at the tormented man beneath him. _I'm sorry, my love, _Sherlock thought as he leaned in to place the tape on John's mouth.  
"Why is he do-mmph mmph!"  
"Because you said a naughty word, Johnny. Naughty things happen when you say naughty words!" Sherlock finished taping John to the bed and Moriarty left with a satisfied grin.

Sherlock fought hard to regain some control over his body. He managed to get a split second in his arm, where he ripped the tape off John's mouth. John moaned in pain as it was ripped off him.  
"John," he could still speak normally, he figured, "John what do I do?" his hands were moving across John's chest uncontrollably.  
"Sherlock, I know you need help,"  
"Help? Yes… the computer…"  
"I saw the document"  
"How? The computer has a password."  
"I figured it out."  
"What was it again?"  
"Seriously? You're lucky I spent most of the day both practicing how to say it and waiting for you," he cleared his throat dramatically, which was necessary as it was closing from Sherlock's warm, pleasant and stimulating contact, "," he smiled and Sherlock dropped off the side of the bed, "Sherlock? Sherlock are you alright?"  
"I can move…"  
"What?"  
"I can move by myself," Sherlock grabbed a piece of paper and a pen off the bedside table and scribbled down some words, "Here, say these."  
"Why?" John looked at the paper, words like 'Moriarty' and 'burn' were scrawled in spidery handwriting.  
"Tests."  
"No. I'm not doing it," Sherlock was surprised at him.  
"Why not?"  
"Because it's all about you, isn't it? Ever since Harry was murdered you've been concerned only with yourself," Sherlock thought about the past few days with John, he was right, "it was my sister, _my _sister that died, and you're running off all day and strangling me and God knows what else you'll do to me. You don't care about how I feel, you don't comprehend the fact that a member of _my _family has _died _and I've been stabbed with a large shard of _glass,_ Sherlock. Did it ever occur to you that I might be in _pain?" _John still laid on the bed, unable to move from the tape. He turned his head, however, and saw Sherlock's face, filled with an emotion John never knew existed within him- sorrow.


	9. Chapter 9

"John, I-"  
"There you go again! It's all about _you_! I've got an idea for you, Sherlock- how about _you _leave _your _flat so I never have to deal with _you_ again?" John turned his head, expecting Sherlock to leave the room at least. But Sherlock refrained; instead, he sat on the bed and undid John from the tape. He held his arms, massaging John's biceps with his thumbs. John's anger dissipated somewhat, and was replaced with mourning, Sherlock realized, mourning for his sister that he had suppressed since they found her.  
"John…" Sherlock whispered softly, "I love you," Sherlock could see John's eyes become moist with tears, though John still wasn't looking at him.  
"John, look at me," he gently held John's cheeks in his hands and tried to turn his face towards him. John followed his hands, but squeezed his eyes shut. Sherlock smiled at how childish he looked, "John," he said quietly, but sternly, "Look at me. Now," John obeyed and slowly opened his eyes to find Sherlock's pale blue eyes sparkling back at him, "I love you. I have loved you since I first met you, but I was nervous, that's why I said what I said at Angelo's that night."  
"I love you too, Sherlock Holmes," John croaked, his throat was closing with sadness and the tears were escaping his eyes. Sherlock shuddered with happiness, as he did before when John followed his love with his name.  
"How sweet," a childish voice came from nowhere. Sherlock darted his eyes around, looking for the man behind it. His expression mimicked that of an angry dog. John stared at him, clearly confused.  
"What are you doing?" Sherlock stared at him quizzically.  
"What do you mean? Didn't you hear him?"  
"Whom?" Sherlock shot him a small confused look before answering:  
"_Moriarty_," he growled.

Sgt. Donovan trudged into the station earlier than usual. She wanted to find a lead on their case before The Freak did. The rest of the station was quiet, which surprised her as the station was open; meaning someone of authority had already entered. She sighed; it was too early for this. She looked on her desk to find the case file as she sat down but it seemed to have moved. She looked around the station before finding it sitting on Lestrade's desk. Grumpily she stood, walked into his office and screamed.

"And it was definitely him?" John asked, setting a cup of tea in front of Sherlock, who had his head buried in his hands.  
"Yes," he strained frustratingly. He glanced at the tea through his fingers and grimaced at it.  
"Just the once?"  
"No, all night. I heard his voice all night long."  
"What did he say?" _God John asks a lot of questions,_ thought Sherlock.  
"Nothing, really. He was just being very, very annoying," Sherlock moved over to the fridge and returned with a slice of cake. John, (who was confused as to the origins of the before mentioned cake) pulled the plate away from Sherlock and gave him his 'it's too early for that' look which, he guessed, would soon be used for more things than food items. Sherlock grumbled incomprehensibly and curled into a fetal position on the sofa. He turned his head as his phone buzzed on the table. John picked it up and read out the name of the sender.  
"Wonder what it's about," mused John.  
"Abuse, probably," Sherlock shrugged in his ball form  
"Want me to open it?" another shrug replied to him and John opened the message before dropping the phone.

The taxi ride was silence, mostly due to the shock from John. Sherlock stared at the message on the phone in his hand.  
_  
TO: Sherlock  
FROM: Donovan  
Lestrade is dead.  
_  
The taxi pulled up at Scotland Yard and Sherlock bounded out of it, leaving John to once again pay for the ride. Sherlock burst through the door of the station to find Sgt. Donovan crying underneath her desk. He shifted his gaze to the office where Lestrade lay. He had a stab wound to the chest and he, like Harry, had the word _INSIGNIFICANT _burned all over his body. John trudged up next to Sherlock and stared at the body in front of him. Donovan stood and sobbed, pointing at an evidence bag on the desk. Inside the bag was a jackknife, and John looked at it in disbelief.  
"Sherlock…Sherlock that's _your_ knife," John stated softly. Sherlock looked at the bag, his facial features unmoving as he realized John was right.  
"The cameras…CCTV, there must be a video!" Sherlock paced around the desk and ruffled his hair. Donovan hurried off to the security room which, to her surprise, was locked. She unlocked it, however and pulled the tape out of the monitor. There was also another tape labeled "warehouse" which she picked up and took to Sherlock. They pushed the tape into the television John had pulled out and watched in disbelief. It was Sherlock on the screen, Sherlock with Lestrade, Sherlock killing Lestrade and Sherlock burning him. Sgt. Donovan silently pulled out the tape and pushed in the next one. The warehouse had a vat within it that was filled with alcohol, as they had realised that it was an alcoholic beverage warehouse. Sherlock was filmed holding Harry in the vat as she drowned in alcohol. When Harry stopped struggling, Sherlock threw her to the floor and burned her like Lestrade. The tape turned off and Sally and John turned to Sherlock.  
"You bastard," growled John, "you fucking bastard."  
"John, I...I didn't..." Sherlock whispered.  
"You didn't what, Sherlock? You didn't kill them? Well it certainly fucking looks that way!"  
"Please, John... Don't hate me..." tears fell from Sherlocks face and he dropped to his knees and looked up at John.  
"I don't hate you, I _loathe_ you."  
"Please, no! I will avenge them! I'll find out who did it!"  
"It was you, Sherlock! The only way you'll avenge them is by killing yourself and frankly, I think the world would be better off if you did!" John stormed out of the station and Sgt. Donovan turned towards the CCTV room, leaving Sherlock to cry in a heap on the floor.

**Hi. Yes, it's been a while since I updated but I have been working on a side story and my lack of constant internet impairs my upload speed. Also, it was my birthday yesterday and I bought some new anime DVDs so they're going to take up a lot of my time over the next few days.**

Lots of angst lately, sorry. They will pull through eventually and if you're lucky I'll make a fluffy chapter after this has been solved. Thank you so much for the reviews, too. I saw on my traffic how many people have read it and that has compelled me but those two reviews were the chocolate coating on my gummi ^3^  
See you in the next chapter!  
SH


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock wandered aimlessly through the streets of London. He didn't know what to do. He had no-one to turn to, he'd never needed anyone. Anyone except John.  
"Yes," Sherlock mumbled to himself, "I need him," and he ran towards Baker Street.

John stared out the window of the flat, trying to digest what had happened today. Deep inside him he knew Sherlock wasn't capable of this, but the video proved otherwise. _Explanation...There's got to be an explanation... _John's train of thought flicked to the answer he should have known all along.  
"Moriarty," he whispered.  
"You called?" Moriarty's voice made John jump as he whipped the gun out of his pants and pointed it at the half-blind man.  
"Get the fuck out of my flat," John growled at him. Moriarty smiled and sat on John's chair.  
"Oooh, you've developed quite a filthy mouth! Do you kiss Sherlock with that mouth?" He chuckled.  
"That's none of your business. You're going to leave in one of two ways, the way you came in or inside a body bag."  
"Don't you want to know how I made him do it?"  
"Hypnotism, wasn't it?"  
"Very good, Johnny."  
"You used hypnotism to make Sherlock kill Harry and Lestrade."  
"Yes. I, Jim Moriarty, Manipulated Sherlock Holmes to do my dirty work! Brilliant isn't it?"  
"No, but this is," John pulled the trigger on his gun.

Sherlock heard the gunshot from the street and stopped. He stared at the blood stained window with a body lying limply against it. He took a few steps backwards before turning and running. Tears streamed down his face as the thought of John, _his_ John, lying dead inside the flat flashed through his mind. He ran to the giant building that was in front of him and began scaling the wall.

John rang Sgt. Donovan to tell her that Moriarty was dead in his flat and he had evidence that Moriarty was the one that killed Lestrade and Harry. She came immediately and said she'd put down his death as 'killed in self-defense'. John shook at the thought that he had killed a man and distracted himself by watching the television. The news was on, and for the second time in his life, he nearly fell out of his chair watching it.  
"_A man was seen scaling the walls of Big Ben a few minutes ago. He is now standing at the top and officials are worried that he may jump. Citizens are being held back as..."  
_John sprinted from the flat.

"Why does there have to be so many people?" Sherlock mumbled to himself, "why can't I go to my John in peace? I'll wait for them to leave, then I'll go," He sat down on the ledge and looked down at the crowd. There were many frightened faces and one guy who cupped his mouth and shouted:  
"You gonna jump yet?"  
"Piss off!" Sherlock yelled back. The man screwed his face up and walked away from the tower. _It's nice up here, _Sherlock thought, _maybe one day I could bring Jo-, _his face fell.  
"Even if John were alive, he hated me, he wanted me dead. Maybe I shouldn't wait for the crowd to disappear, maybe I should..." He trailed off as he stood up and peered back over the ledge. He closed his eyes and heard hundreds of people gasping at him.  
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Sherlock's eyes opened at the sound of that familiar voice.  
"John...?"  
"Sherlock," he continued, "look at me," Sherlock looked down at the source of the voice and smiled as he saw John yelling at him through a megaphone, "get your arse down here right now, mister!" Sherlock giggled lightly as John reminded him of a scolding parent. He started to crawl back down the wall and when he was a couple of meters from the bottom, he slipped. John darted forward and caught the surprised Sherlock in his arms.  
"John..."  
"Sherlock, what the hell were you doing?"  
"What you told me to. I'd do anything if you asked me, even if you hate me," Sherlock looked away from John, who was still holding the detective in his arms in the way Sherlock did when John was stabbed.  
"I don't hate you, you idiot," Sherlock winced at John's words.  
"You loathe me."  
"I _love_ you," John kissed Sherlock on the cheek and Sherlock faced him once more.  
"I love you too, John," he craned his neck up and kissed John on his mouth. A massive cheer came from the surrounding crowd and after a few minutes they all left. The police and paramedics made sure Sherlock was alright before leaving the couple to go home to Baker Street.

"John?" Sherlock said as they sat in the living room and watched the television.  
"Yes?"  
"Who did I see in the window?"  
"Moriarty. I killed him and put him against the window so I didn't stain the carpet."  
"You killed him? Why?"  
"Because he killed Harry. I gave Sgt. Donovan the tape that proves it. I recorded him confessing in the flat. I don't know why he came, however."  
"He was going to burn you."  
"What?"  
"Like Lestrade and Harry, he was going to burn you."  
"Why?"  
"Because you are my heart," Sherlock leaned over and kissed him, "and I thought my heart died, that's why the rest of me wanted to die too."  
"You're an idiot, Sherlock Holmes."  
"So are you, John Watson," They held each other and kissed, forgetting about the television, the world, everything except for each other.

**Better? I certainly feel that way. I'm planning one more chapter foa all of you. It may seem that Moriarty's death was a bit rushed but I really, really wanted to kill him and I didn't want it to draw out any further than his survival has :3**

So one more chapter and then it's full steam ahead to a new story I'm working on. This is my longest story so far and I would like to thank everyone who added it to their alerts, favourite stories and reviewed it, it seriously does mean so very much to me.

See you in the finale  
SH


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N Passionate behaviour in the bedroom. You have been warned.**

John was still watching the television when Sherlock fell asleep on his lap. A couple of hours passed and suddenly Sherlock started panting and squirming.  
"Sherlock? Sherlock, what's wrong?" John stroked his hair to try and calm him down. Sherlock woke up and let out a soft cry.  
"John..." His eyes relaxed but he was still panting. Tiny beads of sweat formed on his forehead.  
"I'm here, Sherlock. It's alright, tell me what happened."  
"John..."  
"Yes?"  
"I had a nightmare. Will you...hold me?" John smiled at him, still running his fingers through the detective's hair.  
"Yes, Sherlock," John shifted on the sofa to fit behind Sherlock and hugged him from behind. Sherlock turned in his arms to face John. John could see him blushing in the darkness.  
"...Will you kiss me?" Sherlock said quietly. John leaned his head in towards Sherlock.  
"Yes," John gave him a short kiss and held him tighter.  
"...Will you go to bed with me?" John got up from the sofa and picked Sherlock up in his arms.  
"Yes, Sherlock. I will," John carried him into Sherlock's bedroom.

John closed the door after he laid Sherlock on his bed. He pulled off his shirt and joined Sherlock in the bed. Sherlock ran his fingers across the scar above John's diaphragm gently and John winced slightly.  
"Does it hurt?" asked Sherlock.  
"No...It's just...ugly," John looked away from Sherlock, but Sherlock grabbed his head and ran his fingers through his hair.  
"Nothing about you is ugly. You're my perfect idiot," Sherlock smiled cheekily and John smiled back.  
"You're perfectly idiotic yourself."  
"I know," Sherlock leaned into John's neck and kissed the skin. He poked his tongue out and licked from his collarbone to the top of his jaw. John pulled Sherlock's shirt off and moved his hands along his waist. He pushed them up towards Sherlock's head and pulled him into a deep kiss. Sherlock broke away and licked John's lips teasingly. He moved down to John's torso and ran his tongue across John's scar.  
"You're very licky..." John whispered. Sherlock looked up at him with a lustful smile and grabbed hold of John's hips.  
"You're very lickable," came the detectives husky voice. John shuddered and moaned as the soft, wet, pink flesh explored his navel. John gasped as he heard his own jeans being unzipped. Sherlock removed John's jeans and moved back up to kiss him as John removed Sherloc's pants. Sherlock's tongue explored John's mouth and John tugged at Sherlock's boxers as they kissed. When they had removed each other's remaining clothes, Sherlock returned to John's abdomen. He ran his fingers against John's member and John gasped and shuddered as Sherlock brushed the tip. He licked where his fingers had been and John clenched the sheets as Sherlock took him in. He sucked lightly as he moved along the member, being gentle, but with enough pressure to please John. John cried out as Sherlock's teeth skimmed his tip and took him in deeper. After applying more pressure, John released himself into Sherlock. Sherlock drank him and licked at the remains before moving back up to John and nuzzling at his neck. John stroked Sherlock's member in return, and after a few pressured strokes, Sherlock drizzled into John's hand.

They cleaned each other and the bed before lying back down together, panting.  
"I love you, John."  
"I love you too, Sherlock," they smiled at each other and Sherlock gave John a small kiss.  
"I don't think I'll have any nightmares again tonight," Sherlock blushed in the darkness. John ran a hand through his hair and could see how drowzy they were getting.  
"I'll always be here if you do."  
"I'll always be here for you," Sherlock whispered as they drifted to sleep together.

**And that's the end. I know the end may sound a bit corny, but picture them together and it's just so...beautiful. Again I'd like to thank all who read, reviewed and favourited. I'm a bit inexperienced when it comes to the whole...sexual themes thing... and I didn't want to consult my smut fairy because I'm afraid it wouldn't be as delicate. I hope you enjoyed it, think of it as a present from me to you for supporting me with my longest and most popular story to date.**

Could be dangerous.  
SH


End file.
